


Ages Drag On

by ProwlingThunder



Series: Sapphire Slivers In Ashwood [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings Online
Genre: Gen, Lullabies, Middle Earth is Real, Modern Day Elves, Original Character (Imorrael), Original Song, Then To Now timeline, game character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProwlingThunder/pseuds/ProwlingThunder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I love this land. I do not think I shall ever leave.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>She survived through the Ages; the Rise and Fall of Men, the Shattering of Nations, and the Rise of the Modern Age. She has not crossed the Sea. Perhaps she will never.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ages Drag On

**Author's Note:**

> So Imorrael is my (unfortunately clutzy) elf-archer from Rivendell, born as my character for LotRO.
> 
> SOMEHOW she decided she would tell her story. Because apparently it doesn't stop. *handtoss*

_“I love this land,”_ Imorrael remembered telling someone, though now she couldn't recall who she had been speaking to. _“I do not think I shall ever leave.”_

 _“Don't you feel the call to the Sea?”_ They-- whoever they had been, and though her life was long Imorrael's memories fade with time-- had asked of her.

She remembered smiling, a soft, bitter thing. A true smile, at the time, when false smiles had been rare and true smiles even rarer. _“I do. But never shall I heed it, I think. Though I might change my mind with time, I do not see why I would.”_

And she hadn't, though the end of the Third Age had snuck up on her, and most of her kin had passed on beyond the shoreline at the beginning of the Fourth, the bright, golden Age of Man.

She was sure there was still a place for her, beyond the waters, and she remained sure no matter what changed.

Kith and kin had passed away; the mortals died, and most of the elves that remained were less inclined to remain in one place. She was no different in that respect; Imorrael had always been a wanderer, never staying in one place for more than a week or two, ever loving to climb the trees and sleep her nights away. She had never been a sort for proper society, for beds or bedrolls or food not cooked over an open flame, even when the Elves had graced Middle Earth like the innumerable stars in the sky.

As the Fourth Age drew on and on, staying in one place quickly became a hazard that one could not afford. Wicked things such as a goblins and orcs dwindled, forced to hide in crevices of the world, or places better off forgotten, such as Moria, who's doors were known to precious few. Kinder folk like the Hobbits simply vanished off the face of the world, the Shire lost from maps and tracks and minds alike, hidden by some sort of fay magic, perhaps. Bree lingered for a while, but eventually the Age of Man drug it along through the name of progress, and it became little more than a ghost town swept away by time.

Dwarves lingered, Imorrael remembered; they did not draw themselves away as quickly as others did. But as the centuries spun round, Dwarven kin dug deep into the mountains and closed their doors behind them, when their numbers dwindled and Men not at all like those she had loved pushed and pushed and pushed.

In more recent years, Imorrael ran across one or two. Aule's children were ever cautious, and many thought her a Man herself. She did nothing to dissuade them, precisely, because Men had cut away the forests of her birth for that same route of progress, and she had begun to wear her hair to hide her ears when news of Elf-hunts reached her. They passed, eventually, like all things did, but she did not announce herself that way, and she knew of no other Elf that did otherwise.

So she let the Dwarrow be, for they were Dwarven and did not announce themselves, though she figured they must remember what Elves were, and knew her to be quiet for her safety as they were for their own. They must be. Little else made sense.

At some point, someone got their hands on someone to tell the story. Or perhaps that someone-- Tolkien-- had gotten their hands on books from the earlier years, or. Well. Something.

But at some point when Men were destroying themselves, with no proper Enemy to fight, a Man took some sort of pity on them and spun their story in to what was known as Fiction.

It was not, to begin with, safe by any means. But Imorrael knew, as her distant kindred would know, that this would allow a certain safety. But more than that, she knew, was that as she poured through the words of this Man and her eyes touched on familiar names in the unfamiliar script, or as she ran her fingers over the beautiful maps, that having the history in her hands would help her to remember.

The works were about as accurate to history as anything could possibly be, she supposed. They were not unbiased, and she had, of course, been there in person for very little. But over all the words spoke to her memories with fond names and a history that had seen the landscapes change.

The books were not horribly, terribly popular at first. Imorrael was not ashamed to say she was within the niche of the few that were quite fond of it. She had been to see him, and run in to many Elves she had long thought lost, and she had fallen quite in love with him and his family for returning their history, as many of the Elves had. But within a few decades, nearly everyone had heard of the story, if not the Man himself who had penned it, and suddenly....

Suddenly it was very safe, to claim oneself an Elf.

Reading groups, historians, little children everywhere were putting on the title. Fans of Tolkien's work, people suddenly enthralled and in love with the history Imorrael had lived.

'Role Playing' groups began to pop up. People crafted people and wore them as a second skin, much as she and others had done, pretending to be Men. But these Men were determined to live out their lives, pretending to be Elves and Dwarves and Men of old. And not just those; the first time Imorrael had seen an Orc among them, she had nearly peppered him with arrows, but she had pulled her hand at the last moment and plugged one into the forgiving earth at his feet, whereupon she had been congratulated for such a magnificent 'costume' and archery skills, and the not-Orc had asked to be taught.

It was strange, but it was safe. It let her take down her caution for a time, to be Imorrael once again, not the Man she had been pretending for so long. She enjoyed the company of the strange Men, some who took names of fallen allies for their false skins, some who made up strangers she had never known. She enjoyed, too, the company of not-Orcs and not-Goblins and the growing, terrifying multitude of not-Wizards that sprung up. Hobbits and Dwarves, Elves and Men, a Ring-wraith or two.

It was not harmless, precisely, which was one reason Imorrael stayed. Though all of them were Man, as near as she could tell, she was as much an Elf as she had ever been, and so long as she had remained, there too could be others who did so who were far less kind. She thought she could feel the Age of Man ending, and she did not know where it would go.

She knew there was still a place for her, across the Sea. Beyond the lands that had once been the Gray Havens, should she build an Elven-boat and sail in that direction. But Imorrael now remembered names and faces with such clarity that she marveled she had ever forgotten them at all. She wondered, if perhaps any such boats would turn East again from beyond the waters and return when the Fourth Age finally settled and the Fifth Age began, and if they did if perhaps she would see people who had forgotten her in time, or if she would meet some who were wholly strangers.

But regardless of what did or did not happen, she thought she would stay anyway.

“Nee, Imorrael,” One of the Men called to her, dressed as he was as one of her distant kin that had never before existed until he had wrought him with his own hands.

Imorrael watched him as he walked to her, running her fingers over the ash-wood bow that was her current, most familiar weapon. Her daggers had ever survived the years, with care. But her bow was not such a long-lived metal, and often had been replaced. This one was not an elf-bow, proper, but she had contacted one of the Elves who crafted such weapons and worked up a trade for leather armor Imorrael herself could do.

This Man wore one of those armors now. Many of her group did, for some thought her eccentric to settle in her role forever, and some thought her honest. And if most of them who did believe her honest shucked off the Dwarven armor and Elven ears and put on the trappings of mundane Men again when their few short days were over, Imorrael felt they were wearing the skins of Men as false crafts instead.

How many of these had she named Elf-friend? How many knew that real Elves would aid them on her behest, should they need or ask it?

Many, and none.

This Man, though, was just a little different. He pretended quite strongly, and indeed Imorrael felt he wore the act of a Man instead of the act of an Elf, or else he would never quite call himself Imorrael's son on this field of play that was not quite a game to either of them. She did not know if he understood what that honor was, or if he already did and was trying hard not to let it change him.

He was not yet quite past his Majority for Men in this Age. And he was not at all past Majority for an Elf, as far as his years went. But he knew that her ears never left, and she spun him stories of a past this world could no longer admit had ever happened.

He basically flopped on the ground next to her, though, and she smiled softly in amusement. She had never been the most graceful of Elves, and that had never changed. Of course her not-son would be quite the same.

“Ugh, it's hot. What's the temperature out here?”

“Hot,” Imorrael answered, wry. She ran her thumb over the grain in her bow, watching him. Waiting. As an Elf she was patient, as she must be to survive the years. As an Archer she was ever more-so, for sometimes one had to wait for their prey to cross before them.

Men were less patient. Her not-son groaned and tossed an arm over his face, burying his nose in the crook of his elbow. She waited still, reaching out to move short, fair hair from where it was plastered to his face with sweat. He was a blades-man, not an archer, and he required much movement in his practice, for reasons she did not quite know.

“You're frustrating.”

“I know.”

Something in his expression pinched, and after a moment he moved his arm to look up at her. “You're worried.”

“I am thinking,” she corrected, reaching down to run her fingers over the... prosthetic he wore over the ear closest to her, to give him the shape she herself possessed. It was pretty flush. He had mentioned perhaps trying a surgery to make such a shape permanent, and she did not know how to fell about that. Pride, perhaps, that he wished it. Sadness, that such things were required. Of course, he was her son and he had an Elven heart, but he did not look it and he was mortal, as all mortals were.

“Uh huh. Pull the other one.”

Imorrael blinked. “Sorry?”

He huffed at her, part laughter. “How old are you, really? Sometimes you act like my kid sister, and sometimes you act like my mom.”

It didn't sting. She had met his kid sister, and she was a sweet girl, and in a few years, Imorrael thought, she would adopt her as well. Perhaps the child would make a better archer than her brother? “I could not say. It has been... a long time, and I have lost track.”

He made a thoughtful sound, and then covered his eyes again. “Sing to me?”

The change of subject was it's own reward. She obliged him, and sung the song her own mother had sung to her, lifetimes ago.

_“Rest now, my dear child,_  
_Lay down your sweet head,_  
_For this storm is prowling,_  
_And the night is young yet._

_But it shall not harm you_  
_For the Stars are on guard_  
_And they shall watch over you_  
_Right until Dawn._

_Rest now, my sweet child,_  
_Be off on to bed,_  
_For not a single nightmare,_  
_Shall snake 'round your head._

_For they can not harm you,_  
_Let the rain patter on._  
_Drown out your troubles,_  
_Flood out your fears;_  
_Beat out your nightmares,_  
_And wash off your tears._

_Breathe my young darling,_  
_The night carries on,_  
_The storm is your sister,_  
_The rain is her kin._  
_The wind that is howling_  
_Is not a wolf at your door_  
_This is your brother,_  
_He watches your nest.”_

Imorrael had always fallen asleep there, when she was very young. And while she knew the rest of the story, she could hear his breathing settle to slumber in the shade. The rest of the story was not necessary. Yet...

_“Settle down darling,_  
_Rest on through the night,_  
_Come Dawn once again_  
_This storm shall be gone._  
_But I shall still be here_  
_You are safe in my arms.”_


End file.
